


Civilization

by Rhyo



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhyo/pseuds/Rhyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people carry civilization around on the inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civilization

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing scene for SHARDS OF HONOR, told from Aral's point of view.
> 
> Set early in the book, after the second night spent planetside, when Cordelia and the injured, brain-damaged Ensign Dubauer are Aral's "prisoners." They've managed to kill an animal for food and are camped by the river.
> 
> The line in italics at the end is a line from the book, showing where it picks up.
> 
> Written for Yuletide 2004 - alas, I no longer remember the name of the recipient.

He walked the perimeter of their camp -- such as it was -- listening for anything suspicious. Away from the small campfire the starlight was barely enough to see by and he moved cautiously, stopping every few feet to listen and to peer into the dark shadows cast by the trees and rocks. The list of things that fell under the heading of "potential dangers" was growing appallingly long. Native flora and fauna, dangerous enough; but also a small scouting party of his own men -- his former men -- heavily armed and with orders to kill or perhaps even another minion of Radnov's, a stealthy sniper sent out to finish the job that Bothari botched.

It was almost enough to make him jumpy, or would have been had he not spent the last few days on a forced march with a headache that spoke of slight concussion, too little sleep and a salvaged field rations diet of packets of reconstituted oatmeal and a vile white paste that Cordelia had called "artificial blue cheese dressing." He glanced back at the camp and shook his head at his two captives.

The Betans -- Cordelia and her sole remaining subordinate, the luckless Ensign Dubauer -- remained asleep, both of them dimly illuminated by the dwindling fire. Even a dunking in the stream hadn't served to wash the dirt and grime off them, but the slight play of firelight hid the dirt and the gentle light softened both their faces. Dubauer could have been sleeping the sleep of the just, he could have been what he was supposed to be, a young scientist on his first exciting field expedition, instead of one of the first casualties in an ill-advised prelude to war, his mind permanently scrambled by a disrupter blast. And Cordelia, with her fair skin and red hair, her features too strong to be called beautiful but too striking to be called plain, could have been... 

There was a faint rustling in the knee-high grasses and shrubs between the campsite and the river bank. He froze, listening carefully. Was that just one creature? He'd let his thoughts wander, thinking about something a little too distracting.

Better to think about something else -- perhaps his own immediate problems with Radnov and Grishkov or his long-term problems with the Emperor and Prince Serg. And far better to try to think of Cordelia as an enemy combatant, a prisoner-of-war to be turned over to the diplomats for hostage negotiation. But it was difficult to think of her in those remote, strategic terms when his thoughts had already taken a different direction, when he had already stored up a mental image cache of her expressive face.

He'd seen her face when Dubauer had slipped in the swift stream and been pulled under the surface of the water. She'd radiated equal parts fear and determination as she dove for him, her own feet sliding out from under her. Her ensign was taller and outweighed her by a considerable amount, but she'd never even hesitated, even though she had to have known that she really had no chance of saving him. She just held tight and went under with him, futilely struggling against the current.

If he'd been closer, he might have tried to stop her, but there had been nothing left for him to do but lunge for her and, one hand on her belt and one hand clenched in the fabric of the back of her uniform tightly enough to rip it, haul them both back toward the bank in a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength.

The confused Dubauer had lain on the bank, retching and coughing up water, and Cordelia had sprawled, gasping for air -- and then she'd thanked him, with surprise in her voice. She had apparently expected him to let her drown. He shook his head again, unable to imagine how she viewed him. Or why it seemed to matter to him.

If he'd met her under other circumstances -- ordinary, civilized circumstances -- he doubted she'd have this strange pull on him. Of course, he'd hardly be in a position to meet a Betan Expeditionary Forces commander under ordinary circumstances. But here, in this strange situation, in this strange moment where the pretense of civilized behavior should have been dropped, she managed to carry her civilization like a shield, her honor like her personal armor and fulfill her command duty to her damaged ensign with grace and compassion. He could no more resist that combination of traits than he could order himself to stop breathing. It was innately who and what she was and he found it stirred emotions in him that he'd thought walled off years ago.

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing the bristles on his jaw and rubbing his tired eyes. At this point there were many fatal mistakes he could make -- presuming that the successful outcome he'd envisioned was actually possible and therefore a non-fatal resolution was even achievable -- and he needed a clear head. He'd intended to keep the night watch himself, but maybe it was time to awaken Cordelia and switch. He'd given her the stunner back, low on charge though it was, but he felt no qualm about sleeping when his "prisoner" stood guard with a weapon. She'd given her word on her parole and it was clearly the equal of his own pledged word to her.

The rustling came again, nearer, louder, and he swore under his breath. The carcass of the animal they'd slaughtered for dinner was proving a tempting target for nocturnal scavengers. He should have had the good sense to dispose of it earlier; now he'd have to do it in the dark, over uneven ground. He began gathering wood from the edges of the clearing, with an eye toward building up the fire. Perhaps a bonfire and a good torch would keep the predators away long enough to get rid of the carcass.

_She awakened deep in the night with a start. But it was only the fire flaring up as Vorkosigan added an unusually large armload of wood..._


End file.
